Dwight K Schrute: Tales of a Vampyre Slayer
by crackers4jenn
Summary: Really. The title says it all, doesn’t it?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This was inspired, obviously, by the episode Joss directed. And I totally play up on the theme that was presented by a Jim prank: JIM IS A VAMPIRE. ZOMG.

His brain is working on over-time, which, lets face it, is no more of an occurrence than Michael being hilarious. But Dwight revs the motors of his already highly fast-thinking, pushing the limits of his genius.

Jim is a vampire.

He'd seen the evidence with his own two eyes, and while, yes, Schrute eyesight left some things to be desired, he has the best in corrective wear. He could see as well as every single person he knew--nay, better than every person he knew, including Michael—who wore contacts, even though he didn't want anybody to know because he thought having 'glasses' made him 'geeky', even though Dwight tried to explain (varying tactics) that contacts i weren't /i glasses, they were contacts, and even if they were, no way did it make Michael geeky.

Therefore, the collected evidence is solid.

The idea popped into his head sometime in the early AM, when thoughts of the oncoming new day were swirling around with thoughts of the previous, and suddenly. Suddenly, it all made perfect sense.

He would save Jim Halpert.

He would.

* * *

"Hello, Jim," he tests early that same morning, gravely watching for signs of a sudden if not half-expected attack. Without a carved stake nearby (Creed had taken them home Friday night--something about gambling debts, or _whatever_) he has to rely solely on his martial arts training to counter-attack whatever vampiric assault might be thrown his way. 

He has to be ready for literally ANYTHING, which is why he keeps a stealthily hidden hand at his desk drawer. Perhaps the mace might be needed to debilitate.

Jim sits down with a heavy sigh. "Mortal," he greets.

Red flags immediately fly.

"How are you? You look…" Remarkably pale. Unearthly white, like the lower half of a well-nurtured beet. Like he'd been infused with demonic blood and is now a hollowed out shell of his former self, an inner-war of good vs. evil perpetually raging with all the strength of a relentlessly thrashing storm, merciless in the wrath of Mother Nature. He couldn't say any of that, though, so he settles on, "…tired."

"Man," vampire Jim admits, "these work hours are seriously killing me."

"Nine to five? But. That's--"

"I know, it's a normal work day, or whatever, but lately… I don't know, lately I've just wanted to sleep all day. It doesn't make any sense, I know. It's like…" Dwight leans in close, spell-bound by Jim's words, "--like I feel like I need to be i up /i at night."

He has to try. He just has to. "Insomnia is a growing epidemic--"

"No," Jim is quick to cut in, though he's convincing in his conviction.He seems to realize his intensity and therefore calms himself enough to say, more flatly, "It's not that. It's this strong… unrelenting… almost primal _NEED_. Like, I couldn't even sleep last night. At all. I was up all night--"

"Reading? Watching Letterman?" For the sake of humanity, Dwight HOPED. Gods of Kobal, he hoped.

"That's the weird thing. It was like I needed to be OUTSIDE."

" _No._ "

"Yes."

He's gripping the edge of his desk tightly, his knuckles a stark color of white. "What did you DO?"

Vampire Jim shrugs, easy and without concern. "I went outside."

Dwight sags against his chair, feeling boneless and nauseous. This is so much worse than any feasible scenario previously imagined, and he'd imagined a lot. The extinction of an entire town, eliminated by a hungry Jim Halpert. The mysterious disappearance of farm animals. Starbuck finding planet Earth and pilfering a Cylon raider to come kill the vampire Jim in some awesome display of otherworldly tactic, their supernatural sides battling in a fight to the death, with Starbuck and Dwight and various ninjas as the victors.

"What happened?" he eventually asks as his suspicion gets the better of him.

Jim gives it a moment of deep ponder. "I don't know," he realizes. "It's like… I blacked out or something. Everything's a blur, you know?"

A solemn nod. A crushing weight.

"I've said too much," Jim suddenly says, aware of their open surroundings. He sets his man-bag down and turns on the computer. The screen lights up. "I should get to work."

"Yes," Dwight agrees, though it's only half-mindedly, his brain swirling with this latest development, "you should."

* * *

The exact idea comes to him at 12:42 pm, when he's discussing the intricacies to Angela. 

She hadn't got it. Any of it. Said--in that amazingly huffy way that women tend to get once they're entirely convinced of something and stay stubborn in their unrelenting insistence that they, the inferior and historically proven to be less competent female, are correct--that Dwight was being incredibly ridiculous. Did he really think her to be so naive? Did he go to sleep watching his Battlestar Whateverica and have some foolish dream?

Uh, _no._

She wouldn't even hear him out. The multitude of proof he provided? She rolled her eyes at. The evidence, the hard, cold facts… she wouldn't even consider their possibility, discarding them as falsehoods with as much rapidity as they were given.

After she had left him in the breakroom, a lioness pissed off at its mate and probably plotting its revenge attack in the form of Bible study and cat/yarn playtime, the idea had hit.

If there was one thing Dwight knew about vampires it was that they didn't have a soul. It's what made them such a danger to the general populace. Well, that and their official stance as being illegal aliens. Once you were dead, you pretty much had no basic civilian rights. You might as well cancel every credit card you owned and go live on Anartica. With the ice caps, and whatever. The Yetti.

Anyway, the idea that Jim was floating around this big cosmic world without his soul... essentially, without a work visa, well, it made Dwight uneasy.

So he decides, at exactly 12:42pm, that he will give Jim his soul back.

* * *

Dammit. The Orb of Thesulah. Where is he supposed to find one of those at? Matches, herbs, candles, heck, even the animal bones he could gather. The beet farm, after all, is a well-congested compost to deceased rodents. But the Orb? They don't even have one on E-Bay, at least not one that isn't marginally over-priced, and there is no way Jim is worth _that_ much money, ever. 

In front of him, a desk width's apart, vampire Jim yawns, making a great show of stretching. He's probably way beyond exhausted, since he's nocturnal now. His innards are probably screaming for the sweet release of sleep.

As if his instincts are magnetized to Dwight's thoughts, Jim appears at Dwight's right, a sudden apparition that is silent enough to temporarily startle him. From the inside, though, because Dwight never, not since he was a small, defenseless 6-year old whose upperarm strength was too pitiful for even diligent riposting, lets his surprise register. As far as outside appearances go, Dwight is in a constant state of disalarm.

Advantage: _him._

"What website are you looking at?"

"Nothing," Dwight mutters.

_False._ Dwight is looking up the ingredients he will need to give Jim his soul back.

"Really? 'Cause it kinda looks like you're looking at--"

"I'm _working_," Dwight insists, throwing a scathing glare Jim's way. Maybe Jim _is_ a vampire, but he's still an infuriating one who asks too many questions and likes to stick his nose where it doesn't belong, and Dwight has no tolerance OR patience for that.

"Are you sure? I mean, Buffy--"

"THAT," Dwight cuts him off, minimizing the website on his computer screen as quickly as his superior motor skills allow him, "is classified." An idea enters his head. "She's a client of mine."

"Really? Buffy?"

"Yes."

Jim makes a face. Repeats the name, with great recollection. "Buffy." A cringe. "I don't know why, but, yeah, that name creeps me out. A lot."

"It's just a name."

"Yeah, I know, that's the weird part. But, it's just. It's so… familiar. For some really strange reason."

Dwight shrugs, nonchalant as can be. "Lots of people have the name Buffy."

Not true. Not true at all. It's probably one of the Top 10 Least Popular Names for this part of the region.

"Here? In Scranton?"

"…yes."

"Yeah. You're right. That's probably it. But, still." Jim backs up a step. "I think I need to go… collect myself. I'm feeling a little off right now, you know, kinda… nervous, like there's someone out there who wants to _kill_ my kind."

"Yes," Dwight understands. "Go. Take a breather, Jim."

"You're right. I could definitely use a snack." He stops. "Wait, you didn't mean _eat_ a... never mind. Do me a favor and forget I said anything, okay?"

And then Jim leaves, much to Dwight's horror, heading into the dreary unknown, and as he does so, Dwight first understands that this is a battle far larger than even he can handle alone. He realizes he has to employ other devices, if this is going to work.

Dammit.

* * *

Dwight settles himself in front of the reception area, keeping a gauging, cautious eye on Jim. Given the building's layout, it's the most dependable, reliable standing situation, as far as defences go. From here he has a straightforward view of the offender with absolutely zero interference, visual or otherwise, and Jim? Well, Jim would have the lesser position, wouldn't he? His back to Dwight, sitting on a likely faulty swivel chair, one with only minimal pivoting capability, while also wearing shoes with non-rubber soles. 

Dwight sneers to himself. If only _half_ the office came prepared for ANY number of emergencies (natural, man-made, and supernatural alike) it'd be a more competent work atmosphere. As it is...

He garners the focus of the receptionist. "Attention," he commands, very low. She starts to look up, like Pavlov's life-work trained to obey the verbal demands of those more dominant and masculine, but he cuts her off, quick. "No!" A whisper, yet a shout. "Do i not /i look at me."

This time the mutt disobeys. In olden days, that contumacy would've required immediate punishment, likely in the form of lashings, or prolonged starvation. "What--?"

A fierce, unshakable murmur. "Dammit, Pam! Avert your eyes! Avoid direct contact!"

She dutifully obeys, a little warily, staring instead at the blank space before her. It calms Dwight down, just a fraction of an inch. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jim shift slightly. Suspicious. But then Pam says, very quiet, "What are we doing?" and it refocuses his attention.

"_We_," he corrects, "aren't doing a thing." Aware of the oddity of this encounter, because, frankly, the idea that Dwight would openly converse with the secretary is _hilarious_, Dwight pops the lid on the candy bin and starts digging for something even slightly savory. "Fact:" he notes. "I work alone. Fact: I need your help."

"But—" Again her disobedience shows, and she looks up.

"_LISTEN_," he seethes through a clenched jaw, forceful enough to make her gaze flutter back to the empty space ahead of her. He'd throw her a dog biscuit, if he had one, just to keep her so well-behaved. "Something has arisen." His voice is low again. "Something important. This is where you come in. Meet me in the break-area in t-minus 15 minutes, and _come alone._"

Dwight abandons the candy bin momentarily to haul himself across the desk, looking her in the eye. She backs away a little, because she is a woman and therefore inherently timid, but he still prevails. "This is important. Do you understand my instructions?"

Even though her eyes are wide and her skin is pale (makes sense, her being a redhead), she affirms with a slow, earnest nod.

He notices that her gaze flitters up and over his shoulder, to Jim, and there's a sudden, fleeting thought of, _maybe she's one of them too, maybe it's too late, maybe he already got to her, maybe he already got to EVERYONE, maybe even Michael, maybe the WORLD_--but he pushes it away before it fully blooms. He can't risk simple paranoia. It'd infiltrate everything, like a disease. Like syphilis.

Pam eventually says, with great seriousness, "I understand."

He taps the desktop with the flat of his hands, pleased. "Excellent." Then, with a parting look that warns against treachery, he grabs a handful of the candy--further pretense--and returns to his desk.

Jim doesn't look up, but he says, "What was that about?" after a moment.

Dwight practically has a black belt in Evasion. Like when Angela corners him like a caged cougar, asking him if he believes in Divine Intervention and Serendipity, which obviously he does _not_, he's always able to successfully evade her. So it makes sense that he's able to further skillfully dawdle in false innocence, wondering, "What was what about?"

Jim taps at the keyboard, casual as can be. "You were talking to Pam. Weren't you?"

The candy is getting warm in Dwight's palm. Wet and sticky. Like a lie. "...No."

Now Jim looks up, doubtful. Full on inquisition.

Feeling transluscent, as far as true intentions go, Dwight slyly tacks on, "I was getting candy." As proof, he holds up the smatter of melted jellybeans. "I... have something of a sweet tooth. It's genetic."

"Huh." Jim considers this. Then he shrugs, "Okay" and returns to work.

The relief that floods Dwight's body is near tangible.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Dwight's pulling out his lunch, checking their plastic holding containers to efficiently make sure they haven't been contaminated by outside forces, when he spots it.

There. On the top shelf, half-hidden behind Phyllis' lactose-free carton of milk and Pam's bacteria-welcoming yogurt, with 'Jim' written in big black-lettering as claim of ownership.

Dwight sets down his tupperware. Sets down his plastic silverware. Then slides the questionable-looking container towards him. Carefully. Slowly. Not too fast, because God knows what's inside, and who knows how toxic a spill could be. It could wipe out the entire office--it could shut them down for _hours_. Days, even. Weeks or months, in the unthinkable.

That thought making its rounds, Dwight abandons the object of his suspicions. Obviously, though, just to tear free two squares of paper towel, double ply, to use as a protective layer between his disappointingly susceptible flesh and the containers contents.

Feeling much more confident, as far as defenses go, he returns to the task at hand. The lid opens easy enough, though Dwight, still cautious, keeps a safe distance away. The initial assault, with Dwight poised to flee should even the slightest aroma set off any genetically-given warning bells, isn't cause for alarm. The odor is... metallic, yes, Dwight decides, as he cautiously sniffs the surrounding air. Nickels spring to mind. The undercarriage of a well-made ninja star. He moves closer. Sniffs again. There's also... something tart. Almost... sulfuric.

Olfactory exam complete, he moves onto visual.

Liquid. _Interesting_. Dwight shifts the container from side to side, and, thickly, the contents sludge against the plastic walls. Like _blood_. Which makes sense, because whatever this stuff is, it's a dark, rust-like color of red.

He's about to move onto an astrigency test when Jim, who he'd been watching out of the corner of his eye through the room's large window, ends the phone call he'd previously been on and stands up. For all Dwight knows, Jim is just getting up to make a harmless fax, or a copy, or go have some womanly conversation with Pam, but being a serious detective isn't about taking stupid risks and putting yourself in a situation where you and your intentions would be discovered long before justice could be served, so he drops the paper towels, slaps the lid on the container, and shoves everything back in the fridge. He goes so far as to shut the door but, dammit, his fingerprints are all over that container. What the hell is he thinking? He might as well scribble his social security number on the thing, if he's going to be so careless. Tape his ID to the side and go turn himself in right now.

Dammit. _Rookie_ mistake.

He scoops the paper towels from where they'd fallen on the ground, reaches in the fridge again and wildly, blindly, he wipes down the container. Phyllis' milk tumbles over, but whatever, she's blind as a bat, she'll never notice, there's _no time_ to clean it up. He slams the fridge with a quiet panic, grabs his own lunch, stuffs the fingerprint-laden paper towels in his suit pocket to temporarily hide any sign of tampering, and, with an air of obvious innocence to him, steps out of the break-room.

Jim is standing at the copy machine, the brunt of his knuckles tapping a tuneless beat against the machine top.

Phyllis is on the phone.

Pam is scribbling notes.

They don't suspect a thing. The simpletons.

With a slight pause, one he takes to fully affect the act of nonchalance, Dwight makes his way back to his desk. His nerves are on fire. His face feels hot. He has this new information at the forefront of his mind, taking up all his thoughts, and the papertowels are in his pants pocket where _anyone_ might notice them and how would he be able to explain their existence without going into details about Jim's other-being existence and _clearly_ the office is full of people not armed with enough intellect to fully convey the depth of--

"Hiya, Dwight," Jim greets when he returns. He raps his fist against the top of Dwight's desk, smiling. Which, in itself, is worrisome. The lunatic vampire _never_ smiles. Pillages, destroys, maims, drains, savagely kills. Obviously. But smiling?

Dwight shifts and avoids direct eye contact. "Jim."

The papertowels create a bulge. He has to get rid of them. He has to destroy them, eliminate proof of his tampering. He has to do it _now_.

Dwight's resolve teeters as he stands outside the door. A peripheral check through the slant of partially closed blinds to his right confirms the fact of an occupant. His ear up close, close enough that even a disclosed whisper could be heard, Dwight doesn't pick up a sound.

All signs point towards go.

He knocks on the door once, twice, then without bothering to wait for an invitation, he twists the knob, steps inside, and lets the door shut softly behind him.

Michael looks up. And then throws his head back, letting out a tired, strangled, "Oh, _goddddddd._"

No, no. Not yet. He hasn't even made his argument yet.

"Dwight," Michael says, or more sorts of protests. He points a finger, holds it like a weapon. "No. Whatever you're here for, whatever geek-speak you're going to say, just... shoosh it. I don't want to hear it."

"But--"

"What did I just say? Two seconds ago, what did I say? I said, _Dwight_, that I don't want to hear it." And then he looks into one of the many cameras circling his desk like a clan of starving vultures and makes one of them faces that Dwight's only seen him give Toby before. And him.

And once Kelly Kapoor.

Even so, Dwight pushes on. He stands erect, his arms hanging tight against his sides. "Recently it has come to my attention--"

"Blergggggggh."

"That one, possibly others... I haven't ruled anything out as of yet, because. Well, a proper investigation hasn't been performed. I'd need more time. Witnesses. A warrant for discrepency purposes. Holy water--"

"God. What are you even talking about? Because--you know what? You know what I hear? Gibberish, Dwight. You open your mouth and all that comes out is gibberish. You're like one of those _moms_ on Charlie Brown. _Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah._"

"That is _not_ true. In fact, one of the top four reasons I was hired is because I have a clear, infinitely comprehensible speaking voice. It says so on my resume."

"Uh, no, I think I know exactly what I'm talking about. Anyway, I'm obviously very busy here--" He motions to a clean desk, where only an unsolved rubics cube sits in front of him, "so, you know. Make like a tree." A pause. A smile that is both faltering and forced and all at once disturbing. "Leave."

He's like a trained warrior; one bred for a sole purpose, and that purpose is to follow your King's commands at all costs. The King says, _Hey, warrior, my life is in danger. Protect me with your expendable body. Use yourself as a shield. Dodge any and all attacks_, you DO it. No questions asked. The King says, _Hey. I'm feeling kinda hungry. That quail is looking kinda good right now_, you _KILL_ the quail, season it to the King's liking, cook it medium to medium-rare, and serve it (well-garnished) until the King is satisfied and full, and then you offer up a second course.

Thus Dwight's inherent _need_ to obey.

When Michael rolls his eyes at the camera and starts smirking in that way that Dwight doesn't like nor appreciate the implications of, he relents. If only because this is something far more dangerous than even the great Michael Scott can handle.

Time, 2:08pm. Location, Break-Area.

Pam, as scheduled, is supposed to meet Dwight in approximately three minutes.

The entrance door swings open, and Dwight thinks to himself, snidely, that she's shown up earlier than told, which is typical as far as womanly downfalls go, but by the sheer bulk and height of the protruding body through the regulation-sized doorway, he knows, he sees, that it's Jim instead.

Dwight stiffens, because this... is unexpected.

"What's up?" Jim asks ever-so-casually, sliding past him like a shadow, moving to the vending machine with loose change in hand. He's like a kind of Lord Voldemort. Like an uncloaked, vampiric, probably less evil Lord Voldemort, one that haunts Dunder Mifflin ground instead of a mickle of imbeclic children at Hogwarts.

His mouth feels unusually dry. "I...'m... on my break."

False, yet plausible. Dwight already had his lunch an hour earlier, a delicious and healthy combination of beet salad and a fried, reheated-by-the-microwave balogna sandwich, but it's just as credible that he'd hold off until a later time. Why not? He's got a stomach like a camel.

Jim inserts the change into the offered slot, pressing buttons Dwight doesn't bother to notice, then bends over to retrieve a bag of potato chips. As he straightens again, he confides, "You know, the strangest thing's been happening lately. Really--kinda--weird." As he's saying this, he glances behind him, surreptitiously, to check the other entrance to the small room. Coast clear, not a single stray employee in sight, Jim continues in secrecy. "This is gonna sound so weird--you're going to laugh."

His insides burn. The air around him is heavier, louder, and it feels important, so he says, "I won't."

Jim looks over Dwight's shoulder, through the blinds of the wall window. Everyone is distracted, at work, not paying any attention to the unfolding events happening. Pleased with their privacy, Jim says, in a low, controlled voice, "You can't tell anyone."

Again, "I won't."

"Seriously, not a single person, because if this got out--"

"Dammit, Jim."

Jim takes a deep, steadying breath. Then: "I have super-hearing."

While Dwight had already had _some_ suspicion, him being somewhat of a supernatural connoisseur, he's not satisfied with just a simple proclamation. Nor convinced. And he didn't get this far in life by just _believing_ people, taking their word at face value. Thus: "Prove it."

Jim looks surprised at this command, but he complies easily enough. He sets the purchased bag of chips on the nearest flat surface in front of him and walks to Dwight's side, facing Eastward, where the large bay window is laid out in front of them. He grabs at his necktie, loosening it one-handed, and peers through the glass. Dwight watches, rapt. "Okay," he says. "This is easy." Squinting in deep concentration, his brow furrowed, Jim listens for an intent moment. And then he's satisfied, jolting a finger at the window. "See Phyllis? Yeah, she's on the phone with Bob Vance. She's saying..." He pauses, listening extra hard again, then quotes, "'Bobby, I think I still have that little number you bought me at Victoria's Sec--"

"_Jim_," Dwight sighs.

"Stanley... Of course. He's talking about a crossword puzzle. _Wow_--" the obligatory wide-eyed expression of disbelief, "that's weird, right? On the phone? He wants to know what an 8-letter word is for something that means 'naive'. Wait, that's easy. That's _really_ easy, I'm actually kinda surprised he doesn't know it." Jim taps at the glass, raises his voice to be heard. "Stanley. That's easy. You want GULLIBL--"

And then the breakroom door swings open, revealing Pam, and beyond her, muffled, Stanley's confused "what?" enters the room as well.

"Oh," she says, seeing Jim and Dwight together.

"Hey, Pam," Jim says.

She steps inside the room, the door and the office noise closing behind her, and says, in that femininely receptionist voice that's suited for answering phones, "What's up?"

"Man, what IS up?" Jim wonders aloud. "I don't know, I hear Justin Timberlake's really popular right now."

"I heard that too."

"Ugly Betty."

"Really?" Pam asks.

"Completely."

"Wow. That's a little surprising."

"Seriously? I kinda like it."

"You would."

"Ouch," Jim jokes.

"I like Lost."

"_And_ THAT'S just deranged."

Dwight can't take this inanity anymore. What is this, a schoolyard? Is he surrounded by adolescents? _Hey, man, wanna go smoke a drag? Wanna go... have sex with lots of people? Unprotected?_ So juvenille. He clears his throat. Loudly. "A-HEM."

"Oh," Pam says, like she's just now remembering he's there. Absurd.

"Right," Jim agrees.

Pam gives him that faltering smile, one with too many shown teeth that offends his senses. It speaks of lack of power and poor upbringing, plus, it's distracting. "Hey, Dwight."

He gives her a look. One that reminds her of their previously appointed schedule.

"_Oh_," she says again, with meaning.

The vampire catches on. "I should go."

"Okay," Pam rushes to say. Her eyes are locked on Jim's, which is fine, even if it is a typical traiterious thing of a woman to do, because Dwight's are locked on hers in scrutiny. Watching for signs of more disloyalty, of an abandonement to the cause. Who knows, maybe the wench liked the vampire for a pet? Crazier things could happen.

Jim grabs his bag of chips and, with a wave more to the receptionist than to his fellow man, pushes open the door and leaves the room.

It's quiet, at first, as Pam watches him go. Something like forlorn crosses her face, which naturally disgusts Dwight, but he doesn't have time to delve into the patheticness of their relationship.

"What have you learned?" he whispers. He remembers all too well Jim's tormented admission. Dwight doesn't know how far he has to go to be out of vampiric hearing range, but he figures as long as he keeps his voice at a muted level, it wouldn't be properly transmitted.

Obviously Pam isn't as intuitive. She swings around and starts yapping, "Oh, you know--"

"QUIET, YOU," he seethes through clenched teeth.

She looks startled.

Dwight sighs. "You may need to sit down."

The surprise at his outburst recedes, replaced with womanly manipulations of deceptive calmness meant to entrap the male. As if. "I'm fine," she assures him, much too smoothly. At least her voice has dropped a fraction.

Dwight closes the distance between them. Her eyes widen when he stops only mere inches from her being, but he doesn't care, and she doesn't say anything. "I have news," he announces, still internally debating whether or not to admit to the truth. Any, all, a fraction of it.

"I'm listening," she says, still playing the same casual role.

"Jim," he declares, with the upmost of sincerity, "is a _vam_pire."

Her reaction is immediate. "What!?" she shouts.

He swallows those remaining inches between them in an easy stride, grabs at her shouders and guides her towards the farthest corner of the room. She offers up some resistance at first, but doesn't shriek like a banshee as he expects and, eventually, sure they are much more recluse, he loosens his hold on her.

"You're kidding," she says, of his news.

"No," he answers, gravely. Though he wished he was.

"You're... serious?"

"_Yes._"

She looks a form of surprised, nauseated, and terrified. "I can't believe it," she's saying, shaking her head in further disbelief. Suddenly, her hands fly to her mouth and she lets out a sharp gasp as her eyes meet his. "He wanted to make me a vampire too!" she whispers with frantic urgency.

"What?" he demands.

"He said..." She tears her eyes away from his, trying to remember. "This weekend, he called and he said: There's something really cool that happened to me... I can't wait for it to happen to you too." Her eyes are searching his again, alarmed.

He grips her by the arms again, this time to soothe her. "I will _never_ let that happen," he vows, with the upmost of chivalry.

Something unidentifiable flickers in her eyes, but it's gone the next second, replaced with gratitude. "Thanks," she whispers.

He nearly rolls his eyes, annoyed by her sincerity. It's nothing personal. He's just concerned that the vampire is becoming erratic and unstable, an increasing threat to this office's safety. That it's seeking out others to join its lewd gang of necromantic murderers, starting way down at the bottom of the ladder with the secretary and--oh, god--working its way up.

Dwight can't let that happen. He _won't_ let that happen.

"Never," he promises again, out loud, and Pam still looks on, pathetic and grateful as can be.

TBC!


End file.
